Just Tell Me How

"Honestly, Holmes. Just tell me how I ended up agreeing to this."

"I don't see what's bad about it, Watson, you're just making a big deal out of it because you're tired."

"No. Well..." Watson sighed. "Yes."

"Then don't argue. The sooner you comply, the sooner you can sleep, old boy," Holmes replied, turning his attention to other things.

Watson slumped back against the wall of the terribly run-down public hotel. The paint was peeling and the wood dug uncomfortably into his back, but his weariness of this case and his partner's antics were stretching his preferences thin. It was just past one a.m. He'd nearly been awake for a full twenty-four hours. And in their haste to track down a killer that was now far out of their grasp, they'd been on the go since their early rising. Now, at five past one, Holmes had pulled the car into this dingy looking hotel and took to inviting Watson to a sleepover.

Sleep sounded nice. More than nice, frankly. He would have been alright with it had it not been the only suite, as Holmes called it, available that consisted of all of one room. One room, one bed. Watson had no immediate plans to sleep with Holmes; he very much enjoyed his own privacy and Holmes's general lack of hygiene tended to get in the way of proper thinking. But he did share clothes with the man. Maybe it wasn't so bad.

Sighing, he followed Holmes up to the room that they would call their own tonight. "Seriously, tell me how we managed to be near the only hotel which only had one room available."

"Suite, Watson."

"Room," he emphasized, crossing the room and dumping his jacket onto one of two chairs near a small table. "A dingy, dirty, run-down room."

"A man cannot be picky. It's harmful to his health." Holmes had already collapsed into bed, drawing the thin sheet over him. "Goodnight, Watson."

"You are accustomed to sleeping on the floor, Holmes. Why don't you have the honour to do that now?"

"I, unlike Mary, do not have to listen to your suggestions. Now, goodnight, Watson."

Giving Holmes a half-angry glare, Watson persuaded himself into the bed. He would have opted for the chair himself, if it didn't look liable to fall apart with the pressure of a sneeze. As for the floor, as he had suggested for Holmes, it was cold and there were little bugs crawling across the wood that Watson didn't want to ponder.

Exhaling softly, not heard over Holmes's quiet snoring, John placed his arms beneath his head. Staring at the ceiling, he let himself reminisce on how he could have been spending the night: at home with Mary, her in his arms, both comfortably settled into a warm and not nearly-rotting bed. A particularly loud snort from Holmes drove the fantasy away and Watson sighed. Even in sleep, Holmes was determined to disrupt Watson's time with Mary. It figured.

Rolling over onto his side, John pushed the sheet away from his face for fear of unknown bacteria and buried his nose into his arm. All he really wanted was for someone to just tell him how he had gotten here. That's all he really wanted to know.

But, over the snoring of his partner on the other side of the bed, he knew he wouldn't figure it out for a very long time.

... It was going to be a long night.

I can't find an exact date to when the very first hotel was opened. Obviously, back in the 1890's, a hotel to Holmes and Watson was more of a private home opened for public use. Use your imagination.

Thanks for reading! Reviews are great, too.